


Hold on to your heart

by ProxyOne



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: I suppose, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mild Angst, Pining, post London 1941
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-19 22:37:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19365244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProxyOne/pseuds/ProxyOne
Summary: Crowley gives Aziraphale a lift home from the church in 1941





	Hold on to your heart

**Author's Note:**

> Aaayyyy it's my first fic in...well, A REALLY LONG TIME. And of course it's Good Omens, because Good Omens is perfect and can't be resisted. Anyway, hope you like it.

“Lift home?”

 Aziraphale barely heard him.  To say he’d learned a startling number of – well, startling things tonight would be an understatement of the highest order.  Any other time, the new knowledge of the names Crowley had chosen would be enough to chew on for days. The very fact of Crowley showing up _at all_ , given the unpleasant circumstances in which they’d last parted should have been enough to keep him marvelling.  Crowley rescuing him from the scrapes he seemed to get himself into had become something of an - until now - unrecognised delight.  But even that new knowledge wasn’t enough to do more than float along in his mind, cataloguing itself with all the other bits of accumulated observations.   Aziraphale could only stand in amongst the rubble of the destroyed church, clutching his bag of books, staring at the disappearing back of a demon, _the_ demon, _his_ demon, as he hopped and hissed his way back out onto safer ground.

 That this feeling wasn’t new, was painfully obvious to him. Or, it was _now_ .  Five minutes ago it would have been unthinkable, so subconsciously was it felt, but denying it was most certainly _not_ something he could do any longer.  And wasn’t that a strange thing indeed?  Loving things was what he _did_ .  It was his very purpose.  But this? No. He had not been designed for _this._   

 Crowley vanished out what had once been the door, doubtless off to his car and then off to - well, wherever it was he went when he wasn’t near Aziraphale.  And still Aziraphale stood, rooted quite to the spot, waves of warmth alternating with pulses of what could only be described as muted and confused terror flowing through him.  Should he go? Should he wait for Crowley to leave? Surely he’d left by now. He finally looked away from where Crowley had been, the shape of him remaining in his mind, and looked down at the bag.  Inside were all his books, in exactly the same tiptop condition he’d brought them to the church in. He knew this as well as he knew the ground was beneath his feet, as well as he knew a being created for love should love all things equally.  As well as he now knew that all things were _not_ equal.  The ground that he knew to be solid seemed to swoop from beneath him, though he knew it hadn’t.  This must be what humans sometimes feel, what they describe in their poems, he thought distractedly.  He looked up again, wondering how much time had passed. The sounds of bombs and planes had vanished, so it must have been longer than he’d realised.  Long enough for Crowley to be gone, anyway.

 He didn’t know if he felt relieved or not about that fact.

 He looked down at the bag of books again, still dazed at the bone deep effect Crowley and his ‘demonic miracle’ had had on him.  That something so small could be so very big was an entirely new concept to him. His feet finally began to move. It was probably a good thing Crowley was long gone - it would give him time to think about what this all meant.  Really, he should have known it after Paris. The joy it had given him to hear Crowley’s voice should have been a dead giveaway. He’d merely written it off as relief at not having to explain why he’d been discorporated. He knew better now.  Or maybe it was even earlier than that. Crowley’s concern at the deaths the flood would cause had struck Aziraphale as extremely undemonic, though he’d ignored what that might mean in his own discomfort over the situation. Maybe these feelings had always been there, nesting, growing, being fed and nurtured with each and every interaction, with each gentle word.  The fear that had struck him when Crowley asked for the holy water had surely shocked this bundle to life, waiting only for the final switch to be thrown before rising, washing over him, drowning him in a far different love than he had ever experienced before. And now that switch had done what it was meant to do, and Aziraphale wondered if he was now lost.

 He walked slowly, still clutching the bag to his chest, somehow more precious to him now than it had been when he’d arrived.  He gave no thought to the Nazis left behind in the rubble. They’d made their choices, of their own free will. The consequences were for them to accept.

 “I was about ready to give up.”

 The voice shocked him out of his reverie, his head snapping up to see Crowley, leaning back against a car, ankles crossed, arms folded.

 “Thought maybe you’d miracled yourself back home alone.”

 “I - no.  No, I -” He trailed off.  Somehow, although he looked exactly the same, Crowley looked an entirely new person.  How could such a thing be possible?

 “Accounting for all your books then?  I think I got them all. They were all in the bag, weren’t they?”

 The genuine concern that lay beneath the teasing in Crowley’s voice was like a knife to Aziraphale’s heart.  How could humans stand this? Every day they went through it, and somehow kept going. All he could do was stand and stare, his mouth drying out when he so much as thought of speaking.

 “Angel?”

 The teasing had disappeared from Crowley’s voice, leaving only the concern.  Aziraphale was shocked, and touched, and more profoundly confused than ever before.

 “Yes!” he exclaimed, a little too forcefully.  “I mean yes, they’re all here.” He watched Crowley closely, though for what he couldn’t say.  “Thank you,” he added, voice softening. He wondered, not for the first time, if a demon could love.  What was new was wondering whether a demon could love an angel.

 Crowley pulled a face, his nose wrinkling and his mouth turning down.

 “Nevermind that,” he said.  “C’mon. Get in. I don’t think any other bombs are due to fall on us, but you never know what these humans are up to.”

 Aziraphale paused for a moment, then smiled.  He climbed into the car, sitting in the passenger seat.  It was immediately obvious that this car was Crowley’s. Not just one that happened to be here, not just one that he’d stolen, but entirely, completely _his_.  There was nothing about it that didn’t feel like them demon.  Aziraphale found himself settling back into the seats, imagining what it would feel like to settle back against Crowley himself.  He immediately banished the thought, his cheeks growing hot with the fear that Crowley might somehow know what he was thinking. Which was, of course, ridiculous, but it didn’t stop the fear.

 “Where to, then?”

 Aziraphale glanced across at Crowley.  He sat there placidly, watching Aziraphale from behind his sunglasses, waiting for him to answer before starting the car.  Aziraphale found himself missing the sight of Crowley’s eyes. He was aware that, as an angel, he shouldn’t find a demon’s eyes beautiful, but that didn’t stop him.  Maybe he could persuade Crowley to take them off. Just sometimes.

 “The - the bookshop, if you don’t mind,” he answered slightly primly.  

 “You sure?  Because I know this place, does really good cakes and I know you love your cakes -”

 “In the middle of the night?  In the middle of an _air raid_?” Aziraphale interrupted, not sure he was at all prepared to be going anywhere with Crowley.  Not like this.

 “Well,” Crowley began, clearly grasping for words.  “Okay yes, it probably isn’t open _right now_ , but I can show it to you on the way home.  You know. If you’re interested.”

 He had turned to face forwards again, staring straight ahead.  He was obviously flustered, and it endeared him even more to Aziraphale.

 “I _would_ like that,” Aziraphale said gently.

 “Right,” said Crowley, a bit more gruffly.  “Right. Okay. Off we go then.”

 The car started, taking off with enough speed to push Aziraphale back into his seat.  He clung tightly to the bag, as though afraid the speed of the car would tear them from his grasp.  Ridiculous, of course, but it was a reflex quite out of his control.

 “Why did you come, Crowley?” Aziraphale couldn’t help himself.  His mouth moved almost without his control. It was something of a failing of his, when he was around Crowley.  Always had been. “After last time -”

 “I told you,” Crowley interrupted, not letting Aziraphale so much as mention their last meeting. “I didn’t want to see you embarrassed.”

 “Yes, but how did you _know_ I would be there?”

 Crowley gave a full body shrug.

 “I hear things.  And an angel trying to sell books as part of a badly planned scheme to catch Nazis doesn’t really get more obvious.”

 “Oh, _please_.  There’s no way they could have known I’m an angel.”

 “Them? No.  But me? Stands out like a neon light, _angel_.”

 How Crowley could smirk without actually moving his face was beyond Aziraphale, but he managed it all the same.

 “Well, I’m glad you were there.”

 A silence fell between them.  It suddenly occurred to Aziraphale how much he had missed this.  It had been years since they’d been in each other’s company, and the hole it left had been deeper than he’d let himself realise.

 “So,” he began again, not quite sure what he was intending to say. “What have you been doing the last few years?  More demonic temptations?”

 Crowley gave another shrug.  

 “Mostly sleeping, to be honest.  Though I did wake up long enough to get this.”  He ran his hands over the steering wheel of the car, his pride in it palpable.  Not that Aziraphale needed him to tell him. It had been clear from the moment he’d sat inside.  “What about you?” Crowley asked, looking at Aziraphale out of the corner of his eye.

 “Oh, you know.  More of the usual.  A few blessings, here and there.”

 “Inadvertently getting into bed with the enemy…” Crowley’s words were loaded with teasing and smiles, but for Aziraphale they hit a little too close to home.

 “I would never!” he said, aghast and more than a little embarrassed.  “And I’m insulted you would say such a thing!”

 “Relax, angel.  I said inadvertently.  I know full well you would never intentionally go against heaven.”

 The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable, and it left Aziraphale filled with guilt and remorse.  The silence descended again, but this time it was heavy, oppressive. Aziraphale felt like he was drowning in it.

 They drove on like that a little longer, until Crowley slowed, and leaned over Aziraphale to point out of his window.

 “There it is.  Great cakes. You’d love it.  Just the sort of little place with good food that’s right up your street.”

 Aziraphale was torn between looking where Crowley was pointing, and being frozen in place, painfully aware of just how close he was.  Slowly he turned, his arm brushing against Crowley as he looked out the window. As expected, the store was locked up tight. But even from here, Aziraphale could tell Crowley was right.  It did look like the sort of place he would love.

 “Maybe we can come back here,” he said, his voice only breaking a little.  “Once all of this is over.”

 Crowley sat back up and peered at him speculatively. 

 “Whenever you’re ready, angel.  We’ll go then.”

 He smiled, and Aziraphale smiled back, butterflies thundering in his stomach.  This was yet another new experience. Was it possible for angels to vomit? He felt like he was in danger of finding out.

 The car sped up again, the little cake shop left behind them.  And whatever awkwardness there was between them, was being left behind as well.

 “Do you ever wonder -” Aziraphale cut himself off.  The awkwardness may have left, but he still wasn’t ready to say, to say...to say whatever it was his mouth was planning on spitting out.  He may not know the exact details, but he knew the shape, and he wasn’t ready.  

 “Wonder what?”

 Crowley turned to watch him as they sped through the empty streets.  They may have left the craters behind, but it still gave Aziraphale’s discomfort something to cling to.

 “Oh, do watch where you’re going, Crowley.”

 Crowley huffed, but did as Aziraphale asked.  The journey to the bookshop from that point was excruciating for Aziraphale, and over altogether too quickly.

 “Here we go then.”  Crowley stopped the car outside the shop, turning the engine off.  

 “It was good seeing you again, Crowley.”

 Crowley’s head jerked up, surprise painted across his features, but he said nothing.  They sat in silence, neither quite willing to be the one to end this.

 “You know, angel…” Crowley trailed off.  Aziraphale decided to stay quiet. He wasn’t sure what Crowley wanted to say, wasn’t sure if he would want to hear it, but at the same time...he did.  He did want to hear it, whatever it was, even if he hated it. If Crowley said it, he wanted to hear it.

 “It could just be us, you know.”

 Crowley’s voice was quiet, as though fearful someone would overhear.  Aziraphale thought he was right to be.

 “Just us?”  He knew perfectly well what Crowley meant, but he still longed to hear it for himself.  Even if he would have to reject him, despite his feelings. Maybe _because_ of his feelings.

 “Your bosses.  Mine. We don’t _need_ them.  It could just be us.”

 Aziraphale took a moment to reply, thinking over his words carefully.  He wanted to say yes. He wanted to be done with Heaven, with Hell, with _all of it_. He wanted it more than anything he’d ever wanted in his entire existence.  

 “You know we can’t, Crowley.”

 And it hurt.  It hurt to say that.  It hurt because it was _wrong_.  It hurt because Crowley was right, it could just be them.  But Aziraphale had responsibilities, and if they did leave, if Hell came looking for Crowley, Aziraphale didn’t think he would be able to fight them off.  Not forever. They would take him, and Crowley was the best thing this world had to offer. A world with Crowley in it, even if Aziraphale wanted more, was better than the searing hellscape that would be existence without him.  Aziraphale knew that made him selfish. Made him weak.

 But he just couldn’t do it.

 Crowley just looked at him, his face a carefully blank mask.

 “Right.  Yeah. Silly idea, don’t know what I was thinking.”

 “We can still go to the cake shop, can’t we?”

 It was almost laughable, how much false brightness and hope Aziraphale poured into the sentence, hoping beyond hope that Crowley would understand what he was really saying.

 “Yeah.  Yeah, of course we can.  Just...just let me know when you want to go.”

 “I will.”

 Aziraphale shifted then, needing to be out of the car that felt like Crowley, needing to be alone with his books before something within him broke irreparably.  He opened the door and climbed out, leaning down to say goodbye.

 “Thank you, Crowley.  For everything.”

 Crowley gave Aziraphale a brittle smile, but said nothing.  Aziraphale shut the door, walking to his bookshop and unlocking the door, listening for the sound of the car engine starting.  It didn’t come. He didn’t look back as he let himself in, shutting the door behind him with a soft click, holding the bag to his chest as though it would help hold his heart in.  He stood there for long minutes, stretching on and on. The silence was finally broken by the car starting, Crowley heading off into the night, alone.

 Aziraphale held his books, and closed his eyes.


End file.
